Come To My Window
by an-ocean-in-the-sky
Summary: There was lightning in his eyes; she was sure she was about to be struck, and oh how she wanted it. Takes place during season three's Meaning. A sort of AU of that ep. House/Cameron
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is sort of an AU of the episode "Meaning" from season three. Many thanks to my betas, everytimeyougo and jesmel. This story is for AllegraDante, for her generosity in making some fanart for me. I do not own House, Cameron, or the dialogue that I snagged directly from the episode.

Come to My Window

In the dark of her room, her thin cotton nightie clung to her like a new layer of skin. The air, stirred only slightly by the ceiling fan above her head, pressed into her from all sides, thick and sticky as honey. She rolled over again, trying to find a cool spot on the bed, and sighed. If the storm hovering in the distance would just break already, she might be able to get some sleep, she thought, fist pounding into her pillow.

A tap tap tapping on glass startled her and she sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, and tried to settle her manic heartbeat. A brief flash of lightning lit up a silhouette in her window and she let out a strangled cry, fumbling for the phone on the nightstand, uncertain whether to call for help or brandish it like a weapon.

"Cameron, open up!"

With a gasp of relief, she recognized his voice and rushed to the window to open it, letting in a blast of stifling humidity that was even worse than the air inside. "House, what the hell? You scared me half to death. Do you know what time it is?"

"Circumventricular system sends his cytokines, releasing the early stages of the immune response but CDOS releases prostaglandins that reset the hypothalamic set point upward, unless it's countered by antipruritic therapy. His brain's on fire. The suicide attempt was not a suicide attempt; he drove that wheelchair into the pool because he couldn't regulate his body temperature. He had hypothalamic dysregulation. If the scar tissue on his hypothalamus is resting against the pituitary, the adrenals would shut down."

"You think he has Addison's Disease?" she asked, quickly catching on to his thought process. "Let me guess, you jumped into the community pool and had an epiphany."

"Fountain," he corrected, swiping at his brow. "I can cure him. I can make him walk."

As he spoke, he raised his arms to lean against the window frame and it was like Moses raising his staff to the Red Sea; the sky opened up and poured forth its offering. A violent thunder clap shook the building and one bolt of lightning after another lit up the inky night sky like a strobe.

"Get in here before you get struck by lightning," she said with a sigh, pulling on his arm as he climbed over the window sill and spilled into her bedroom.

"You could be wrong, House. But... one shot of cortisol won't hurt him. We'll try it tomorrow."

Glancing up into his eyes when he didn't respond, she felt the room get even warmer from the intensity of his stare. She was suddenly hyper aware of her appearance; her nightie as insubstantial as tissue paper covering her breasts and falling just below her pelvis, with only cotton panties beneath. Self-conscious, she tugged at it, as if she could somehow make it cover more of her.

"I'll get you a towel," she said, and turned to leave. She didn't get one step away before he grabbed her by her arm and dragged her back to him, pulling her right up against his chest. Beneath his damp t-shirt, his heart thundered against her palm. There was lightning in his eyes; she was sure she was about to be struck, and oh how she wanted it. His hand on her bare skin burned like a hot iron and then he was kissing her like she'd never been kissed in her entire life.

He peeled her nightgown off her and lowered her to the carpet, kissing down her neck and then sealing his mouth over one of her breasts, rolling his tongue around her nipple as if it were a lollipop he'd stolen from the clinic. Her blood felt like molten lava running through her veins. She arched into him, reaching frantically for whatever part of him she could get. Feverish with lust, she pulled at his shirt and then his shorts as he kicked off his sneakers.

She touched him everywhere she could with her hands and fingers, sliding and tugging and grasping, desperate for him to put out the fire. His skin against hers created a delicious friction she thought might throw off sparks into the darkened bedroom and set it ablaze. They slowed down only long enough for her to grab a condom from her nightstand and then he slid into her, thrusting with such intensity she knew she'd have carpet burns on her back.

While he pushed into her, he grunted and pressed his mouth to the skin of her neck and jawline and dipped down to kiss her lips and the spot just behind her ear. One of his hands went around her, smoothing down her spine and cupping her ass, urging her upward, while his other hand seemed to be everywhere at once: on her breast, tracing her lips, stroking back her hair, pressing her legs wider, and sliding down her flattened stomach to where their bodies met.

Neither of them spoke beyond breathy sighs and gasps of pleasure. The storm outside the window began to fade away just as the storm inside reached its peak.

They lay side by side on the floor, catching their breath. She looked at him, unable to keep the smile of satisfaction off her face. It wasn't that she thought he loved her or that this was the beginning of a relationship. She knew better than to hope for that. And he was so very very different now, and she was still processing the changes within him and how she felt about them. But she was so thoroughly sated, her skin tingling from head to toe, that she could do nothing but smile.

"I could sleep for a week after that," she said with a laugh, trying to ease away the awkward tension that threatened to settle over them.

"Yeah, me too," he replied, sitting up and reaching for his clothes. "I should get going."

She passed his shoes to him, then eased her nightgown back over her head. "I'll go in early and give Richard the cortisol shot."

With a nod of approval, he shoved his feet into his sneakers and moved back to the window, climbing through before she could protest or offer him a ride home. She watched as he jogged off and disappeared around the corner. Closing and locking the window, she fell back onto the bed and wondered if there'd ever be a repeat performance.

She hoped, she dreamed, and eventually she slept the sleep of a very satisfied woman.

**A/N 2:** This could stand alone. But there are also three more parts, for those who are interested. Reviews are much appreciated. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part two**

Much to her surprise, House appeared at her window the next night and the night after that and nearly every night for weeks. Neither of them said much. She opened the window and he climbed through and pressed his sweat-dampened skin to hers and they shared an hour or so of physical satisfaction, sometimes on the floor, sometimes on the bed, and once against the wall. There were times it was urgent like that first night and there were times he slowed down and learned every inch of her. And when they were done, he'd leave the same way he arrived, through the window, with a simple "Goodnight" or "I'll see you at work," while she watched him jog off into the night.

She was sure that if he knew how much she felt for him, how deeply he touched her every time he, well... touched her, that he would run run run and never come back. So she kept her heart as guarded as possible, seeking only to make him feel that he was safe, that she wouldn't ask him for more than what he was giving. At work they went on as normal, as if they weren't involved in a torrid sexual affair, and as far as she knew, no one suspected anything.

Two weeks in, she began to worry about what would happen when it was over. Her heart was already too involved; she knew that. If he abruptly ended things, she wasn't sure she'd be able to continue working with him day after day. The longer it went on, the more her heart was at risk.

Three weeks in, the calls began. The first one came just as she finished her dinner. Some foolish part of her hoped it was House on the other end of the line, but instead, a deep voice tinged with anger and desperation, told her, "I know what you're doing. You have no right to judge anyone."

"Who is this?" she asked, but he just laughed mirthlessly and hung up.

She thought it was a joke or a wrong number, and though it disturbed her, she dismissed it. But when the second call came the very next night, she started to worry. By the third night, she called the police, who sent an officer to take a report, advised her to authorize a tap on her phone and told her to keep her doors and windows locked, which only made her think of House, and worry more.

Each call became more ominous, making her heart seize up with terror..

_You think you're better than everyone else. You're acting like a whore. _

_Do you think he won't get hurt? He will. He'll get hurt if you keep this up. That's what women like you do. _

_Letting him climb into your window, Dr. Cameron? That's what whores do. Cheap sluts who have to hide what they're doing from the world._

_I heard he got shot. Terrible thing that must have been. Be a shame if something like that happened again. _

She hadn't slept properly since just after the calls began. The only time she felt safe in her own home was when House was there, sliding through her window, sliding her clothes off of her, sliding into her. He made her forget, for a brief time, that someone might be out there, someone might be watching. And then he'd go, and the fear would set in again. She'd think about calling him back, or telling him the next day at work, but she wanted to be strong. Didn't want him to think that she was needy or that she was putting on some damsel-in-distress act to get his attention. Nor did she want him doing something reckless that might get him hurt.

But every little noise set her heart to racing; even the crickets outside sounded sinister. She ran to and from her car each day, and kept a light on in each room, the curtains drawn tight against the outside world. Her closet doors remained open, so that she could be sure no one was hiding there, and she propped a chair beneath her doorknob whenever she was home to keep intruders out. But even that didn't erase the feeling that someone was out there, watching, biding his time until he decided when to strike. She began to feel like a prisoner in her own home.

The last call raised goosebumps on her skin and sent prickles of fear down her spine. Brought back the memory of House standing by the whiteboard as a madman put a bullet into his stomach and then his neck, while all she could do was press her palms against her own heart as if she could keep his blood, his life, from pouring out of him with her own two hands. As if her heart was his own, and his was hers, and as long as one continued beating, the other would as well. There was no way she would ever let anyone hurt him again, as long as it was in her power to prevent it. She knew she had to end this thing.

The next day, she found a moment to speak to him alone in his office, swallowing down her nerves and the lust she felt at seeing him so casual and confident and relaxed, with his legs propped up on his desk, and his long, capable fingers toying with his iPod. He had a way of making the most innocuous of activities look sexy, and now that she knew what he was capable of when it came to sex, she found it even harder to keep her focus on what she needed to do. But then she remembered the fear that someone out there wanted to take him from her. Because she loved him, she had to let him go.

Taking a deep breath, she began, "House? We need to talk."

He looked up, pulling his iPod buds from his ears and dropped his feet to the floor. Something about the brief panic in his eyes set her at ease a bit, and she plunged ahead, eager to assure him she wasn't there to ask him about his feelings.

"We have to stop," she said. "You can't keep coming... to my apartment."

"Why?" he asked, eyes suddenly narrowed, zoning in on her like a spotlight.

"Because... my heart is involved," she said. "It's been... fun. Really amazing fun. But if we keep it up, I'm going to get too attached and then... things will get complicated and I'll get hurt and then... I'll have to leave here." She looked at him only briefly, afraid he'd see in her eyes that she wasn't telling the whole truth. "I don't want to leave here," she finished, glancing at him again.

When he didn't speak, didn't respond, she sighed with both frustration and relief. "Okay then," she said, smiling as if it was all settled, and in her mind it was. With that, she strode out of the room.

**to be continued**


	3. Chapter 3

Unable to sit still, she paced around her living room, her nerves on the verge of short-circuiting. She pictured him out there, waiting to strike and it made her want to crawl out of her own skin. Pouring herself a glass of wine that she hoped would calm her, she settled on the couch, grabbed the remote and flipped on the television, seeking something light and mindless to distract her and settle her jitters.

_Criminal Minds_. Oh hell no, she thought, switching quickly to the next channel. _ Law & Order, CSI: Miami._.. Seemed all that was on were shows about violent criminals, which was the last thing she needed. She was about to turn it off again, when she found HGTV and stopped, perching on the couch to watch some hunky handyman renovate a house. But then he began installing a new window and her mind was off again on the endless ways in which the stranger on the phone could break in and do unspeakable things. And of course, there were thoughts of House climbing through her window, which she knew would never happen again. Then her mind circled around to the lunatic on the phone, who was the only person likely to come through her window anytime soon, and she was driving herself crazy.

HGTV was no help after all. She flipped it off, and thought instead of putting on some music, because the silence was intolerable. But then there was a banging on her door that made her jump from the couch with a little cry of terror, spilling wine all over the floor. Her heart was crashing violently against her ribcage and she glanced around the room for a weapon or a means of escape. Or both.

"Cameron, open up."

House. It was House. At her door and not her window. She took a deep breath and then went to answer it, peeking through the peephole first just to be certain.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, as he strode in uninvited, taking note that he was wearing jeans and not his usual running attire.

"Came to talk," he said, looking around the room as if inspecting it, cataloguing what was there.

"We already talked," she reminded him, strangely comforted by his presence. And yet it also ramped up her anxiety to new levels.

"No,_ you_ talked," he answered, and just then her phone rang and she thought she'd have a heart attack right then and there as her pulse increased again and her breath came in shallow gasps. "Going to answer that?" he asked, one eyebrow raised as he watched her.

All she could do was stare, her fingers rolled into tight fists, nails digging into her palms as the phone continued to ring.

Moving toward it, he reached to answer it when she found her voice again, though it came out as nothing more than a panicky whisper. "Don't!"

But he did, picking it up with the greeting, "Smurfette's residence, who's calling?" while his gaze pinned her in place. A moment later he disconnected.

"No one there. You want to tell me what's going on?"

"Not really," she said, trying to control the tremors in her hands. "You should go."

"Do you know me at all?" he asked, plopping down on her couch. "Think I haven't noticed you haven't been sleeping or that you're jumpier than a bullfrog with a pogo stick? Spill."

Her hand went to her forehead, kneading at the skin there and she started to pace again, thinking. And then finally she surrendered. "I've been getting these calls," she said with a heavy sigh. "Threatening calls. They started just after... just after the first time you came to my window."

"You call the police?"

"Yes. They said they'd put a tap on my phone, that I should keep a log of the calls, and that they'd increase the squad car presence in the neighborhood, but they couldn't do anything more unless he actually... showed up here."

"Useless," he muttered. "Considering that _I've _been climbing in your window and no one has stopped me, they're even less than useless." He grabbed the notebook next to her phone where she'd written all the terrible words _he'd _ said and flipped it open, reading them for himself, one hand pressing into his brow. Then he tossed it back on the side table and stood, grabbing her hand and leading her back to her bedroom.

"What are you doing?" she asked, tugging her hand free.

"Getting your stuff," he said, dragging out her luggage from the closet. Without a word, he began tossing her clothes into a suitcase haphazardly, emptying whole drawers. "If you've got anything you value, get it now," he ordered. "You're not coming back here until this guy is caught."

"House, no. He threatened to hurt you. Not me," she said, blinking back tears of fear and frustration.

"Right. I'm sure Psycho Stalker is a paragon of truth and wouldn't lay one finger on you. Like hell I'm leaving you here. Now get your stuff."

to be continued

**A/N:** This keeps growing, but I think it's going to end up being six chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

As they drove away, a great deal of her belongings crammed into House's trunk, she found herself glancing through the back window of his car and repeatedly checking the side mirrors.

"Relax Cameron, no one's following us."

"What if..."

"No one's following us," he repeated, "But if you want, I can put the pedal to the metal, do a few evasive maneuvers, and drive us miles out of the way and then back again, just to make sure. I think that's how they do it in cop movies."

She rolled her eyes at him, but felt herself calming a bit at his attempt at humor.

As they pulled up to his building though, she found herself checking their surroundings again. He seemed to pick up on her anxiety, because he grabbed two of her suitcases and slammed the trunk closed, declaring, "We can get the rest tomorrow," and striding quickly toward the door, urging her along.

"You have to have a key to get in the building," he said, as he unlocked the door. "And my place has an alarm system now. You're safe here."

"You have an alarm?" she asked, surprised, as he let her in to his apartment and dropped her bags.

"Wilson had it installed after I got shot. Said he was afraid the shooter might try to finish the job. First time I've ever used it. The code is GRLY, in Wilson's honor." Grabbing her bags again, he ushered her to his bedroom, set down her luggage and went to the windows to pull the shades, double checking the windows were locked. "Come on, let's get some sleep. You can unpack your crap in the morning."

He stripped off his jeans and t-shirt and crawled beneath the covers, while she dug through one of her suitcases to find some pajamas. She changed while he watched, squirming beneath his piercing stare, and then slid beneath the sheets beside him feeling strangely awkward despite the fact that they'd had sex many times.

"Why didn't you tell me about the calls?" he asked, as she shifted to get comfortable.

"Don't know," she said, closing her eyes. "I was afraid, I guess. Still am, but... less so now," she offered with a small smile.

"So that speech you gave in my office today about your heart getting too involved? Was any of that true or were you just trying to save me from Stalker Dude?"

"Both," she admitted with a sigh, looking into his eyes to gauge his reaction.

"So... you like me?"

"Yes," she said with a little nod of surrender, waiting for his defense mechanisms to kick in.

He rubbed his hand across his forehead, his mouth turned down in a scowl. "Why didn't you just say something?"

Incredulous, she let out a huff of a laugh and answered, "Last time I brought up feelings, you shut me down. Did you really expect me to do it again? Especially when you just up and left after having sex with me."

"I asked you out," he said, his voice rising with frustration. . For drinks and dinner, remember? I wanted more. You turned me down. I thought you were over me. After that first time in your bedroom... you never said anything, never wanted to talk after. I figured sex was all I could have with you. If you still had feelings for me, why'd you turn me down?"

"Because you were acting so weird," she answered, her voice loud to her own ears as she matched his tone. "I thought you were just testing me and it pissed me off. I don't want to be anyone's lab rat."

He had the decency to look chagrined for a moment. "I guess I _was_ testing you. But I still wanted to go out."

Silence descended as she processed these new revelations, and then she laughed. "We're both idiots."

"True," he admitted. "I suck at this."

"You're doing fine now," she replied, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Would you still want me if my pain returned and I had to use the cane again?"

"Of course, House. It was never about your leg... Wait, is that why you drove to my place tonight? Is the pain returning?"

Nodding, he confessed, "It's been getting worse lately. I think my running days are over."

She wanted to cry for him, but knew better. Instead she simply said, "That sucks."

And he laughed, as if he was relieved at her reaction. "Yeah, it sucks."

"Will you go back on the Vicodin?"

"Will it make a difference?" he asked, searching her face.

"I care about you, no matter what. I don't like it when you're in pain, but still... I worry about the long term effects of the Vicodin. I can't help it."

Pursing his lips, he moved his mouth from side to side, considering her words. "I'm not making any promises," he finally said, "but I'll try other methods of pain management."

"Okay," she said, blinking back tears. "Okay." And then she rolled over and kissed him, his stubble prickly against her palms as she cupped his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the course of the next few days, Cameron began to relax a little. The silence of the phone at House's place was a welcome reprieve. House also had his subtle ways of looking out for her at work: sending her with Foreman to perform procedures, making her stay in the conference room and do charting while he pretended to nap on his Eames lounge, aligning her clinic hours to coincide with his own, at which time he sat reading in the waiting room while she did all the work, and shadowing her to the lab or their patient's room, always with some excuse. She caught on right away and couldn't decide whether to be exasperated with him or pleased, so she settled on a mix of the two.

But she wasn't the only one who caught on to House's behavior.

"Usually House is riding me," Foreman said, as they waited for lab results. "What'd you do?"

Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to think of a suitable answer, but all she could come up with was, "I don't know."

Foreman laughed and shook his head. "Well you definitely screwed up somehow, 'cause you've had more surveillance than an Al Qaeda operative."

Sighing heavily, she answered, "I didn't do anything wrong; I just... figured something out and House would rather I hadn't. He wasn't too happy about it."

"Really? Like what? He and Wilson are secretly lovers?"

"No," she said, with a roll of her eyes. "The ketamine treatment is wearing off. His pain is returning."

"Damn," Foreman replied. "He was almost pleasant without the pain. I guess we should gear up for the return of The Miserable Bastard."

"Obviously he doesn't want anyone to know," Cameron said, biting her bottom lip.

"Hey, if he's punishing you for figuring it out, I'm not saying anything." He raised his hands in surrender, then moved to the printer as it spit out the results they needed. "Sucks for you though," he said, in a way that clearly meant he was amused by her plight, and she shook her head at his selfishness.

The test results showed a rare form of cancer, as House had expected. Cameron transferred the patient into Wilson's hands and their day was done. When she got to the locker room to retrieve her things, House was already there, lying on the bench by her locker.

"Foreman wanted to know why you're punishing me," she said. "You can't keep following me everywhere or everyone's going to start wondering."

"Let 'em wonder," he snapped, sitting up. "If the alternative is some psych ward wannabe... " he trailed off, then muttered. "I don't care what people think."

She started to respond when her cell phone rang from the pocket of her lab coat. Checking the caller ID, she frowned and turned the ringer off, shoving the phone in her bag.

"Has he ever called your cell before?" House asked, standing and towering over her.

"No."

"Gimme," he ordered, holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers.

She pulled the phone out and passed it to him reluctantly, watching as he retrieved her voicemail and vaguely wondering how he knew her pass code. Listening, his mouth turned down in a scowl and then he flipped the phone shut.

"What did he say?" she asked, chewing on her lower lip.

"More of the same," he said, shoving her phone into his pocket. "Guy's gotta get a new schtick." Pulling out his own phone, he pressed it into her hand and said, "You use mine. I'll use yours."

"House, we can't just switch phones."

"Sure we can. We just did."

"What if Wilson calls? Or Cuddy? Or your parents?" she asked, hands on her hips.

"My parents don't know my cell number, and if it's Wilson or Cuddy, just let it go to voice mail. They're used to that."

From the recesses of his jacket pocket, her phone began ringing again, echoing ominously through the locker room. He pulled it out and flipped it open and the voice on the other end was so loud she could hear him clear as day.

_"Hiding again? Like sluts do. Does he know what you do at night? How you sneak around? Does he know who you're with? You ruined me. You don't get to be happy now. You don't..."_

House dropped the phone and stomped it into oblivion with his foot, grinding his sneaker into it until there was nothing left but little chunks of metal sliding across the tile floor.

"Oops," he said, his face the picture of innocence. "Guess I'll have to get you a new one. With a new number."

"Somehow I don't think it'll matter," she said, clutching her arms to her chest to keep from shaking.

"Took him a while to go from your home phone to your cell. He's either not too bright or not too dedicated," House replied, grabbing her things from her locker. "Possibly both. C'mon, let's go home."

Nodding, she took her bag from him and followed him out, her stomach in a tangled knot of nerves.

That evening, they sat on his couch watching mindless television and eating Macadamia pancakes that she was sure House had stolen from Wilson. Well, House ate; she just picked the food apart with her fork.

Setting down his food with a sigh, he took her plate and placed it beside his on the coffee table, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her against his chest. "Thought we had talked about this clenching thing," he murmured against her hair. "Not to mention what you're doing to those pancakes, which is a culinary crime if ever there was one."

"Sorry," she said, relaxing a little in his arms.

"Yeah yeah. You know anyone named Elise?"

She pulled away enough to look at him, confused by the sudden change of subject.

"I have a Great Aunt Elise. She's 92 years old and lives in a nursing home. Why?"

"He mentioned the name Elise," he said, looking down at her. "Before I smashed your phone."

"You think he'd hurt..."

"I don't know," he interrupted. "He called you Elise. Maybe he's had the wrong number all along."

"That... doesn't make any sense, " she answered, standing and pacing through the room. "One wrong number, maybe. But now he's got my cell phone number too. He had to have known my real name to get that."

"Yeah..." He pulled her back down beside him and said, "We'll figure it out," as he held her close. "We always do."

She settled in against him, smiling a little at his use of the word "we," like they were partners, a long familiar team whose strengths and weaknesses balanced each other out. Beneath her, he was warm and solid and real and safe.


	6. Chapter 6

While House showered, Cameron made the bed and tidied up the room, feeling strangely at home and domesticated and more relaxed than she had felt in days.

And then House's phone rang.

She froze, a pair of jeans in her hands mid-fold as his answering machine picked up and the voice that filled the room chilled her to the bone.

"I know you're there. You don't think I know? You and Elise, you're both the same. Women like you... you think you can do whatever you want without consequences. You judge others like you're so damn superior." He paused and laughed like a desperate man and she shuddered. "You know what? You're right. There are no consequences for you. It's not fair, Elise. I was the one who took care of you." His voice rose in volume, until he was shouting. "I was there for you and you cheated on me and now you act as if we never existed. You just moved on with another guy. What about us? What about me? I loved you and I got nothing. Nothing."

It was then that it clicked for her; the familiar voice of a man worried for his wife, confused about what might happen to her and what she might have done. She remembered him and she remembered Elise, the wife who contracted African Sleeping Sickness through sex with a man who was not her husband.

Across the room, his voice became a whisper and then a sob as he continued repeating, "What about me? You gave me " and then Cameron heard a clicking sound that she was frightfully familiar with from a day not so long ago in the conference room.

Dropping the jeans, she rushed to the phone and picked up the receiver. "I know who you are," she said. "Please... you don't want to do this."

"What do you know?" he cried. "You judged me when all I wanted was to know she was faithful. And what do I have now? Nothing. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to hurt her so bad. But I couldn't and you want to know why?" He laughed hysterically and said, "Because she's pregnant. That's what we were trying for, you know. And now she's got it with someone else and it's like I never even existed. How could you do that, Elise? How could you? You snuck around like some cheap whore and I'm the one who gets punished? How is that fair? I can't... I can't keep going like this. I can't. What's the point?"

"Please Ed," she pleaded, but she'd barely gotten the words out when the echo of a gunshot reverberated through the room and then a muffled thud. She dropped to her knees and called out his name but there was nothing but silence.

The next thing she was aware of was House pulling her to her feet and guiding her to the bed. He pried the phone from her hand and sat down beside her, turning her face toward his.

"Deep breaths, Cameron, deep breaths."

She did as he said, suddenly aware of the tears on her cheeks. "I know who it is. I think he might have..."

"I heard," he said, looking at his caller ID. "This is your number. He called from your apartment."

Leaping up, she grabbed her shoes and stuffed her feet into them while trying to keep her balance.

"What are you doing?" he asked, grabbing her before she toppled over.

"We have to go. We have to help him."

"Right, we should definitely go charging in to save the lunatic with the gun," he muttered. "Sit down. We'll call the police. Let them do their job for once."

She knew he was right, but there was a big part of her that felt responsible, that wanted to run out the door and race to her apartment. But House was there, grounding her, making her see reason. House was there.

MDMDMDMDMDMD

Ed killed himself in her apartment. Blew his brains out and splattered them all over her living room, as House put it. He'd left a note for Elise, more of the same rambling, nonsensical stuff about how he'd loved her and she betrayed him. But all Cameron could think about was that moment three years ago when his wife lay in a coma, possibly dying, how he'd reached out to her and she shut him down.

_"Does she know I'm here?" he asked, his fingers stroking Elise's hand._

_"She knows you're always there for her."_

_"Yeah… if she gets better it means she wasn't always there for me."_

_"It means she made a mistake," she said, her thoughts caught up in the past, in the idea of a second chance with her husband and what she would give for that. _

_"I can't help it. Part of me, a big part of me… can't handle that. Doesn't want her to get better. Does that make me a terrible person?"_

_"Yes."_

Just like that she'd made herself judge and jury to a man who was hurting, and now he was dead.

MDMDMDMDMDMD

Sneaking out after clinic duty, she grabbed a cab because her car was still parked at her apartment building, abandoned when House dragged her to his apartment to protect her from Ed. She still couldn't bring herself to go back there, and wasn't sure what to do about her living situation. House had never said he wanted her to stay indefinitely, and she could never live in her apartment again... but that was a problem to think about later.

The funeral parlor was quiet; even her footsteps muted by the tasteful carpet seemed loud in her ears. The somber sounds of an organ drifted toward her from an open room and she followed the music until she found her destination. Elise was there, her belly rounded with child. Beside her stood a tall, husky man with his arm draped over her shoulder protectively. A simple coffin stood at the front of the room, with one large floral arrangement laying across the top of its gleaming surface. There was no one else in the room.

She walked down the aisle that parted the rows of wooden chairs and made her way to Elise, who turned and smiled a greeting.

"Dr. Cameron, it was so nice of you to come. This is my husband, Gary."

Cameron smiled and nodded a greeting, distracted by her guilt and all the words she wanted to say.

"I'm really sorry," she replied, her voice choked with tears.

"You don't need to be," Elise said, reaching out to touch her arm in a gesture of comfort. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"But I judged him. Told him he was a jerk because..."

"I know." Taking a deep breath, Elise waved toward the front row of chairs and said, "Let's sit."

When they were seated, Elise turned to face Cameron and continued. "When I met Ed... I knew he was very intense. Maybe even then I knew something was a little off. But I loved him and so I shrugged it off. And eventually, I turned to someone else because sometimes Ed was just a little too much to deal with and I just wanted a distraction, I guess. What I did was wrong, and I will always regret it. But I didn't cause this and neither did you."

Tears were flowing freely down Cameron's cheeks, and she reached up and swiped at them with her fingers. "I just feel like there was something I could've said or done..."

"There wasn't. He was unstable. The police told me he'd been calling you, watching you sometimes. He was doing the same to me. I tried to talk sense into him, but he wasn't hearing anything beyond his own grief and anger. And when I got pregnant... well, I think that was just too much for him. I feel bad for cheating on him, but I'm not responsible for his death. I'm not, and neither are you."

Cameron nodded, somehow managing to smile a little when Elise surprised her by wrapping her in an embrace.

"You were very kind to me when I was sick and frightened. I'll never forget that. And I know you wanted to help Ed. You tried, and that's all that matters."

"Thank you," Cameron said through her sniffles, pulling back to wipe the tears from her face again.

They said their goodbyes, and she left the room, Elise's words rolling around her mind.

"She's right, you know?" House said from just outside the entrance of the room where he leaned casually against the wall.

"House," she said with a deep sigh, "how did you know I was here?"

"Please," he replied with a roll of his eyes. "Any idiot would've figured out you were coming, even if you weren't wearing your finest funeral attire at work. I have to say though, attending the funeral of your stalker is... well let's just say your pathetic-ness has reached new levels."

She stood studying the carpet, feeling a little foolish until he tilted her chin up to look into her eyes and she saw he was smiling. Confused, all she could do was put her arms around him as he pulled her close.

"It's not necessarily a bad thing," he murmured to the top of her head. "You wouldn't be nearly so interesting if you weren't a little bit predictable with the caring too much and the over inflated sense of guilt."

He pulled back and pressed some keys into her hand. "I got your car back, by the way. C'mon, you can drive us home."

Surprised, she examined the ring of keys, one shiny and new, hanging from a keychain that she didn't recognize: a little heart. Not the Cupid type of heart that you'd find on a Valentine's card, but the actual shape of the organ that pumped blood through the body, a little metal heart complete with valves.

"That's slightly softer than the actual thing," he said, tapping himself on the chest. "But it's yours."

"You're giving me your heart," she said with a happy smile. "I'll take good care of it, I promise."

"I know you will," he said, tugging her back into his arms. "I know you will."

The End

**A/N: So we've come to the end. Ed from _Fidelity_ was the stalker, in case that wasn't clear. I feel I didn't put as much time into this story as far as refining it, and I had a bit of writer's block toward the end, so I feel I should apologize about that. But I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Thanks for sticking with it. **

**And thanks to my friend, jesmel, for beta-ing despite her extremely busy schedule.  
**


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